The Sixteen Page 5

  At every opportunity, I slipped out from the cookhouse with scraps of food and even a little milk for them. Then at about two in the afternoon another Sergeant Cook, a huge fat bloke from 518 Company officers’ mess, strode into the cookhouse.

  ‘Well, well. Look what I’ve got here! Who’s responsible for this, you know there’s no dogs supposed to be anywhere on the camp and especially near the food,’ he bawled.

  Looking up, my heart sank. He was standing holding one of the puppies by the scruff of the neck. I’d worked under him briefly in the officers’ mess and for some reason he didn’t like me one bit.

  ‘They’re going to other regiments to be trained as mascots,’ I told him.

  ‘Is that a fact? Who says so?’

  ‘Lieutenant Stevens!’ I blurted out, quickly taking the puppy from him. ‘They belong to Lieutenant Stevens, he asked me to look after them for him.’

  He looked at me for a moment through his narrow, piggy eyes then appeared to accept my explanation.

  ‘Well, get them away from here,’ he ordered, nastily. ‘You always seem to be at the bottom of something or other, don’t you Urwin?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Sarge,’ I said, trying to sound truthful.

  The Sergeant Cook of the cookhouse strode over to us and spoke abruptly to the fat sergeant.

  ‘What’s going on here? Leave that lad alone; he’s working for me not you. Anyway, what the hell are you doing over here, you fat slob?’

  ‘OK. OK. Keep your hair on! I only came to borrow a couple of tins of corned beef,’ the fat sergeant said defensively. ‘There’s no need to be like that.’

  ‘Here, then,’ the Sergeant Cook said, throwing a couple of tins towards him. ‘Now push off.’

  The fat sergeant sent a belligerent look in my direction then waddled off.

  ‘You want to keep well away from that one, Urwin,’ the Sergeant Cook warned me with a nod at the other’s departing back. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work so don’t you go making an enemy of him.’

  Lieutenant Stevens was as good as his word and came back for the puppies early in the afternoon; I was so relieved that they were going to be looked after.

  ‘Don’t do this again, Urwin!’ he warned, and then in a friendlier tone asked, ‘By the way, whatever happened to that stammer of yours?’

  ‘Sold it, Sir,’ I replied, cheekily.

  He just smiled and shook his head as he walked away with the puppies. I never saw them again and once I’d explained to Dave and Bill what had happened when they returned to camp that night, I never mentioned the puppies again.

  I realised that I should have listened to Dynamo and the others and trusted their judgement when they’d warned me – I simply couldn’t afford to draw any undue attention to myself at all! I’d learned an invaluable lesson – I had to keep a low profile at all times.

  That night as I lay dozing on my bunk, I thought back over the events of the last few days and months. Just how had it all come about? How had I, an ordinary eighteen-year-old Geordie lad, become part of such an elite and highly covert assassination squad?

  CHAPTER 3

  IN THE ARMY NOW

  It seemed like only yesterday when I’d said goodbye to my mother and sisters at Newcastle Central Station to head off to Wrexham, North Wales, in order to undergo six weeks’ basic training before starting my two years’ National Service.

  I’d always been very close to my mother and hadn’t wanted to leave home when I’d received my call-up papers. But the only choice I’d been given was that I didn’t have to go into the forces if I was serving my time as an apprentice, learning a trade. I wanted to be a mechanic and had a job at a local garage, but right from the start, I’d known there was no future in it for me there. I wasn’t being properly trained – just used as a dogsbody, a grease monkey; the butt of constant taunts and jokes about my terrible stammer.

  Mam and I discussed my going into the army. Naturally she was very upset about it, she didn’t like the idea of my being away from home with the real possibility of being killed as, at that time, there was still so much trouble and unrest throughout the world after the war. However, a couple of days after receiving the papers, I was outside messing about with my motorbike when Mam called me into the house. Putting her hand on my shoulder she stared at me for a few moments and then said quietly, ‘Do it, son. Join the army and get away from that miserable, moaning father of yours. It’s probably the only chance you’ll get to see a bit of the world and maybe better yourself.’

  ‘But what about you, Mother?’ I asked, concerned at how she’d cope with him if I weren’t there.

  ‘Never mind me,’ she replied. ‘Just you do it!’

  I’d told her that I’d think about it but I really hadn’t wanted to leave her alone with my dad. Although small and slightly built, he was an ex-boxer and a vicious bully who over the years had taken his drunken temper out on both her and me. As a direct result of his treatment, I had developed a dreadful stammer, and by the time I was twelve, my mother had already made two desperate attempts to take her own life (both of which I’d discovered). Who would look after her if I wasn’t there?

  However, the following day matters were taken out of my hands when the foreman at work announced they were paying off two of the other lads and me. Obviously, that changed everything and I felt as though I really had no choice in the matter, as good jobs weren’t that easy to come by. It seemed I as though I was destined to go into the army.

  Two days later, another letter arrived from the army giving the date and time for my medical at Chester-le-Street, which I passed with flying colours the week before my eighteenth birthday on 28 November 1957. When they asked me which regiment I’d like to join, I must have looked a bit blank. I knew little about the army at that time, so I told them that I’d like to do anything that involved mechanical work. One of the recruitment staff made a note of what I said and told me I’d hear from them in a few weeks’ time.

  In the meantime, however, I knew I had to find work quickly as my mother relied on my extra money to make ends meet. After spending a couple of days looking around, I eventually managed to get a job at Tizer, a local soft drinks manufacturer, where I worked for about two months. I’d almost forgotten about the army when a letter arrived giving me the date to report for training at Wrexham, North Wales.

  So, that was that! I’d only been given a week to sort everything out and I went through all manner of emotions – I was both excited and terrified. I’d never been away from home or even out of Newcastle before and thought that crossing the Tyne Bridge was going abroad!

  Well, this is it, I’d thought. Now I’m bound to meet some sensible and intelligent people. This shows just how naïve I was and how little I knew about the army then!

  My mother and sisters came to the station to wave me off, but my father had refused when Mam had asked him to come with us. Deep down I was glad of that; he was one person I definitely wouldn’t miss.

  ‘Don’t worry son, you’ll be alright. Write when you can,’ Mam had shouted from the platform, suddenly looking so small and helpless that I’d wanted to jump straight back off the train. I’d waved and waved until they were out of sight and the train slowly made its way across the High Level Bridge over the River Tyne. My hometown gradually disappeared and I’d watched with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, feeling nervous, scared and lonely, not knowing what to expect.

  I tried to imprint the scene in my mind, fearful that I might forget it while I was away. Down on the river below, small motor-boats were moving around on the water, reminding me of the many times I’d spent on one just like them with my Uncle George, and I wished with all my heart that I was down there in one of them, anywhere in fact other than where I was and where I was going. In the distance, through the archway of the Tyne Bridge, I was able to see the old horse trough, where I used to stop when I’d taken my dad’s horse, Jackie, for a ride when we’d lived there. My eyes filled with tears an
d I felt choked to be leaving it all behind.

  Feeling very nervous and a bit lost, I sat back in the dingy compartment as the train sped south and wondered just what the next two years would bring.

  RPC (Royal Pioneer Corps) 524 Company was based about three miles outside of Wrexham and consisted of little more than a large number of wooden billets around a parade square together with a gym, a NAAFI and a guardhouse near the main gate. I hated it on sight!

  Most of my basic training was done in the middle of winter in the bitter cold. After a week of marching for miles and miles around the parade-square in the snow and being shouted at every inch of the way, I began to find both it (marching) and the rifle drill very easy. Unfortunately, some of my mates found it much more difficult to learn and because of this, they were constantly shouted at and humiliated, which really angered me. Then, to my great embarrassment, the drill sergeant made me number one marker, as I was one of the best turned out on parade and the best at marching. I’d been singled out just for walking and swinging my arms and keeping my back straight!

  I don’t know what I’d expected, but I became disillusioned with the army very quickly. I suppose I’d hoped that I’d meet real men, people with common sense, and that with everyone coming from a variety of backgrounds and all walks of life, things would be different here, but all the lads could talk about was the same old stuff – football, women and drinking, just like back home. Once again, I just didn’t fit in at all.

  When the lads went off to the NAAFI drinking, I went down to the gym and work out on the parallel bars and rings. Usually there was no one else around and I’d have the place to myself, which was great. I loved anything to do with gymnastics; it was something I’d excelled in at school. The other lads in my billet thought I was crazy and tried to persuade me to go to the NAAFI with them, but I just wasn’t interested.

  One night in the gym the Drill Sergeant, another Geordie, joined me.

  ‘How’s it going, lad?’ he’d enquired in a friendly way.

  ‘Okay, Sarge, b-but the army’s s-so d-different to wh-what I thought it would b-be. I w-want to b-be a mechanic b-but I don’t think I’ve g-got much chance of th-that here,’ I told him. I had quickly realised that I was never going to learn anything with this outfit.

  ‘Let me give you a word of advice, lad,’ he said. ‘You’re not like these other morons. If you want to have an easy life in the army, you either box for the company or become a PTI. Your basic training will be over in four weeks and I suggest you put your name down now.’

  I’d been grateful for his interest and decided to do as he suggested – make life as easy as possible by putting my name forward for something I enjoyed, and ask to be considered as a PTI (physical training instructor). However, when I made enquiries I was told that I was probably wasting my time, as they would only train me if I became a regular. This meant signing on for at least three years more, which I had absolutely no intention of doing. Despite this setback, I still spent all my free time in the gym working out and practising. I loved being active and the feeling of being strong and fit.

  Shortly after our basic training was over, we had our Passing Out Parade. A lot of the lads’ families turned up but Mam just couldn’t afford it. I was disappointed; she’d have loved it and would have been very proud of me.

  Rumours began to spread around the camp that we were being transferred, to another camp at Stratford-on-Avon in two days’ time. I decided that I’d spend what few hours I had left at the camp in the gym, as I might not get the chance to work out for a while. I’d been trying to train myself on the pommel horse as I’d seen the PTIs working on it and thought I’d like to give it a go. But I was making a right mess of it, banging my knees until they were sore. As I practised, I gradually became aware of someone watching me and stopped what I was doing. Looking around, I was surprised to see a guy standing in the corner of the gym, arms folded, dressed in a black-and-red PT instructor’s T-shirt and black trousers. I hadn’t heard him come in.

  ‘You’re doing it all wrong, Geordie!’ he called out to me. ‘Here, I’ll show you.’

  I couldn’t remember ever having seen him around the camp and was surprised that he knew my nickname, but I watched in utter fascination as he began to effortlessly swing his body around, as though it weighed absolutely nothing. He made it look so easy and as he worked, he kept on talking to me.

  ‘You’re a good gymnast, Geordie. I’ve been watching you for a while. I understand you like boxing.’

  ‘H-how d-do you know that?’ I’d asked him. ‘It was wh-when I was a k-kid, anyway I w-wasn’t that k-keen.’

  ‘Never mind how I know, I might be able to help you. I understand you now want to be a PTI. Why?’

  ‘Well, it d-d-doesn’t look as though I’m going to g-get anywhere e-else in the army, they t-t-tell me th-that being a PTI is one w-way of making life more c-comfortable. I’ve j-j-just f–found out wh-what kind of outfit this is, I’d b-be b-b-better off w-working f-for McAlpine’s!’

  ‘Just what were you expecting?’ he asked.

  ‘I w-wanted to g-get s-some kind of t-trade, b-be a mechanic or s-s-something, b-but I’ve been t-told that if I want to g-get anywhere I n-need to s-s-sign on f-for at least f-five years, so I’ve g-gone off the idea. I f-feel as though I’ve b-been d-duped in s-some way!’

  ‘What else did you have in mind, if you had a choice?’

  ‘If I can’t b-be a PTI I w-want to b-be transferred t-to an active r-regiment, d-doing s-s-something a b-bit more exciting. I thought that w-was wh-what the army w-was all about. If only I could be t-transferred into s-some k-kind of a fighting unit, anything w-would be b-better than this f-flaming mob.’

  ‘Is that what you really want, Geordie?’ he said quietly, stopping what he was doing.

  ‘Y-yes, I’m n-not in the habit of w-wasting time b-by s-saying things I d-don’t mean. It t-takes me t-too long!’

  He laughed at that and then continued on the pommel horse.

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly got the determination, I’ve been watching you trying to do things in here and I can see that once you get into something you like to finish it. You’re a quick learner too, you remember physical movements very quickly, don’t you?’

  ‘I-I s-s-suppose s-so. H-how is that g-going to h-help me?’

  ‘It will, believe me! Don’t do anything now, don’t put in for a transfer or anything like that, we need you where you are right now.’

  I opened my mouth to ask him more but just then the Geordie sergeant came in and, to my surprise, the PTI immediately stopped what he was doing and came right up to me.

  ‘One of us will contact you at Stratford,’ he whispered, then quickly left.

  ‘E-excuse me?’ I shouted after him but he just opened the door and walked out as if he hadn’t heard. I’d thought that it had to be some kind of wind-up or practical joke.

  ‘Who was that?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘I h-haven’t the f-foggiest idea,’ I replied truthfully. ‘H-he was sh-showing me how to w-work on the p-pommel horse. He w-was pretty good w-wasn’t he? I th-thought you w-would know him.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been here for over two years and I’ve never seen him before!’

  ‘Are w-we g-going to S-Stratford?’ I asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Now how do you know about that? Never mind, it’ll be common knowledge soon enough. Yes, you’re leaving soon, but I don’t know where you’re going,’ he told me.

  I just shrugged and carried on training – wherever the army decided to send me, I’d have little say in the matter. But I was unable to stop thinking about the stranger. All his talk of ‘we’ and ‘one of us’ had totally baffled me. Who the hell were ‘we’, in fact who the hell was he? I hadn’t a clue what he’d been talking about or why anyone would be remotely interested in someone like me, from a regiment like this.

  The following Saturday morning our platoon left Wrexham for Stratford-on-Avon and more rumours started, this
time about us going abroad; in fact the other lads talked of nothing else but all I was able to think of was my forty-eight-hour pass to go home. I was longing to see my family.

  I’d been at the Stratford camp for about a week before giving any more thought to the stranger in the gym – so far, no one had bothered with me at all.

  So much for his talk about someone ‘contacting’ me, I thought. I knew it had been a wind-up!

  More rumours began to spread about being posted abroad. The newspapers were full of reports about the escalating trouble out in the Middle East, and the lads talked about it constantly.

  But I didn’t care, I’d finally been given my forty-eight-hour pass and I could hardly believe it; I would be going home and that’s all I was able to think about. I was so excited, even though I knew I’d spend most of those forty-eight hours on a train. But at least I’d get to see my mam and my sisters again, for the first time in three months; it had seemed more like three years and had been really awful.

  But it wasn’t to be. Despite our passes, we were all stopped at the camp gate and told that they had been rescinded. Instead of heading off for home, we were taken to one shed for a load of jabs, which left our arms stiff and sore, and then to another where we received an issue of tropical kit. In what must have been hours but felt like mere minutes, we were herded aboard trucks bound for Southend airport and informed that we were on our way to Beirut.

  The army convoy drove straight on to the airport runway and we jumped out to an utterly amazing scene: thousands of troops stretched in every direction as far as the eye could see. The place was full of hustle and bustle, the air filled with noise: the roar of planes taking off and trucks racing around. Thousands of marching feet and hobnailed boots crunched on the runways, as sergeants screamed out orders. My unit formed part of an airlift in which we were told some eighteen thousand troops were flying out to the Middle East.